


an infinite series of accidents

by Laura JV (jacquez)



Series: every choice you make creates a universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/Heterosexual John Watson, Everyone Needs A Hug, Parentlock, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexuality is a spectrum, emotional context, except sherlock doesn't know it's pining, john needs therapy, sherlock has the emotional range of a teaspoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquez/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: In the universes where we are happy, we claim the accidents we love best, hold them tight, and know them for miracles.





	1. I opened wardrobe doors and checked the backs for snow-filled woodlands.

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, I rework and re-examine some of the territory I explored in [Where are we now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471945). They are, however, separate works -- although if you have read both you will recognize the common ground. 
> 
> This story also deals with Sherlock's personality changes as a result of childhood trauma. As part of that, he tries to determine if his asexuality is the result of that trauma or whether it is not. Spoilery detail is in the end notes. If you have questions about this, or about any of the tags, feel free to drop me a line or leave a comment with questions.
> 
> This story contains two intentional references to Basingstoke's story [Indecorous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/204010/chapters/302679). I will write a drabble in the universe of this story for the first person to ID either or both references.
> 
> Thank you to Basingstoke, Mariana Studart, and educatedinyellow for the beta work, and extra special thanks to educatedinyellow for the ace sensitivity read. Any mistakes or missteps are my own.
> 
> **If you are not seeing text that is _(in parens and italicized)_ in the first few paragraphs, or see white boxes between sections of text, turn off Creator Style.** Link to the story with styles removed

_"I think that what we have is not a destiny but an infinite series of choices and an even more infinite series of accidents. In the universes where we are happy, we claim the accidents we love best, hold them tight, and know them for miracles." -- Jennifer Peepas, "When My Mom Was An Astronaut"_

* * *

The first time John brings Rosie by after Sherrinford, it's on her first birthday. 221B is still under renovation, but John's bedroom is finished; John's bedroom has a cot in it, squeezed next to John's old bed, the one he'd left behind when Sherlock was -- gone. 

They end up quarrelling, he and John

_(hands rough on each other, trying to make John see sense: Rosie will have an extraordinary life, because she is an extraordinary person, the child of two extraordinary people, because Mycroft will want to recruit her, because --)_

but at the end of it, they sit quietly and have tea. Rosie sleeps.

*  
John helps renovate, sprays yellow paint on the wall and Sherlock remembers his outrage

_("They're giving me an ASBO!")_

and cannot keep from asking,"When are you moving back in, John? It's quite safe for young Watson. Look, I've put locks on everything. I've childproofed the stove -- did you know there was childproofing for stoves?"

 

The shock of it is, that John wants to come back, but won't. His excuses are thin at best, until --

_(oh)_

_(yes, there is that)_

"I suppose it wouldn't be good for Watson to have an atmosphere of violence in the home, but I know you're capable of great restraint, John." He hears the plaintive note in his own voice, but cannot stop it. "I thought, when you helped me put the place back together, that it meant you were coming back to me."

_(He has missed John terribly. He will miss Mary the rest of his life. There are so few people who understand him)_

"You make it sound as if we were lovers," John says, and then they're quarrelling again; John has never understood that Sherlock does not need a lover. He was perfectly fine by himself, but then he had John,

_(a violent man, deadly, stimulating, everything works better around John)_

who of course sees his own addiction to violence as something to be kept from his child, as if by doing so he can keep her safe. He will not, or cannot, see that he must use that part of himself so that Rosie can keep herself safe, in the years to come. 

It is infuriating, and yet, on the other hand --

_(warm affectionate press of John's arms around him; brutal thump of John's boot into his ribcage; all one, all one, all one)_

perhaps John has his reasons for wanting to keep that side of himself from his daughter; and on the gripping hand --

_(the left hand, John's dominant hand, his trembling hand, his sinister hand)_

"If you don't come back," Sherlock says, "you will destroy yourself." He breathes John's scent, rests his hands on John's shoulders

_(strong)_

could lean in and embrace him, but does not. Instead, he turns John to face him. "If I swear not to provoke you again-- not to invite you to hurt me--"

_("I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.")_

"Oh, God," John says, pressing his hand over his mouth as if he's about to be sick, and then he is gone.

Sherlock is uncertain what he said wrong.

*

He never does deduce what, exactly, changes John's mind. He arrives home one evening from a visit to Sherrinford, and there are toys on his chair and a box of colored plastic dishes in the kitchen, and he nearly trips over it in his haste to get upstairs

_(John's voice, murmuring something, baby noises answering)_

He slams open the bedroom door. John, Rosie, stacks of boxes--

_(a swell of something, something nameless and formless and enormous, his own heart beating in his throat and wrists and chest like a drum)_

"John," he says, and "stay", and then, helplessly, "John." 

John holds Rosie on his hip, and says "I -- I want to. I am. But you can't -- you said you wouldn't provoke me and you know -- we both know -- that's what you do. It's -- I have to -- " He shakes his head, presses a kiss to Rosie's hair. "I can't -- you know I can't -- you know what I'm like, without you, you must know -- what you've meant to me." He trips over his words. "You -- we can't hurt each other. I can't hurt you, not again." He's angry, though Sherlock cannot tell where that anger is aimed. There's an edge to his voice, a challenge in his eyes,

_(a wound as deep as his heart)_

but there is warmth there, and affection, and kindness, because one can be wounded and yet choose not to strike out. Sherlock wraps his hand around John's neck and holds him still, just for a moment. "You're not dangerous to me."

John's tongue touches his lower lip and then he scrapes it with his teeth; his astonishing, familiar, mobile face twists. He reaches out, strokes one thumb over the fading scar between Sherlock's eyebrows, cups his cheek briefly. "History suggests otherwise," he says. He scrubs his hand along his thigh, and looks away. Rosie babbles and pats his face.

Sherlock wants to pull John closer, to breathe into his hair, to hold him. "No," he says. "You've decided, haven't you?"

_(John has decided: he will be here, in Baker Street. He will be the savage, loving parent Rosie needs)_

_(He will not be alone. Sherlock will never leave them)_

John closes his eyes, shakes his head, inhales. "Yes," he says. "Well. I'm here, aren't I?" When he opens his eyes, there are tears standing in them. 

He says it quite without meaning to, as often happens when he speaks to John

_(some subconscious part of him taking control of his voice, except he knows what part it is, knows it well)_

but he would not take it back for the world: "Sleep downstairs."

"What?" 

"Sleep downstairs. With me. When she gets old enough to need her own space. You're worried about that. Don't be."

"Sherlock--"

"You know perfectly well I don't mean have sex with me, John."

_(John's skin is soft under his fingers; scent of sweat, scent of diaper cream)_

When John nods, and puts Rosie into his arms, there is one single moment of incandescent joy burning its way through Sherlock's veins. 

*

John begins seeing Ella again. "She never helped before," Sherlock complains, and John holds onto the tabletop and trembles.

"She -- she already knows. So much. Of what I've been through. And I'm reasonably certain she's not your sister in disguise." 

Sherlock flings himself down into his chair. "Pointless."

"It's not. God, Sherlock, I can't --" His jaw works, and he taps one fist on the table. Sherlock eyes him warily, unsure if John is about to start yelling, but John takes a deep breath instead. "I told you. If I'm going to be here with you, I can't keep -- hurting you."

"You said you wouldn't, and I believe you," Sherlock says. "It's fine, John."

"It's not," John says. "That's -- it's not." He comes over, sits across from Sherlock, clenches his hands in his lap. "Mary -- when she shot you -- I'd never been so angry with anyone in my life. But you know what I didn't do? I didn't put my hands on her."

"No," Sherlock says, softly. 

"And then you -- when you -- and I -- Sherlock, I can't do that to you, either. Just -- you can't be in a slot in my head where it's okay to hit you." John closes his eyes. "You -- you and Rosie are the two most important people in my life, Sherlock. And this is something I have to do. For both of you, and for myself." 

"You're not dangerous to me," Sherlock says.

"Why are you trying to talk me out of this," John says, and scrubs his hands through his hair. "Sherlock. Why?"

"Because you've already made this decision," he says. "Because I know you, and you've already decided--"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've decided not to touch you, not ever again," John says, low and fast and angry. "You can't possibly -- I can't just decide this, I have to -- I have to work on this, Sherlock, I need help with this."

_(oh)_

Sherlock leans over and takes John's shoulder. "Maybe you should consider -- maybe you should touch me, sometimes," he says, and John surges forward, into his arms, his fingers digging into Sherlock's spine.

"Oh, God," John says, muffled against his chest, and holds on. 

*

He feels settled enough into grief to compose, finally. John knows better than to ask what he is composing

_(a requiem for Mary)_

but he listens, quietly, in the evenings. He breathes evenly, and sometimes Sherlock catches tears edging their way from beneath his eyelashes

_(John's grief is different than his, and still twisted round some deep wound Sherlock cannot reach)_

and he does not eat enough. His face is harder, now

_(except when he looks at Rosie, or Sherlock, or Molly)_

and his body is leaner than it was even when Sherlock first knew him.

He finishes the composition in time for the anniversary of Mary's death. The three of them go to the churchyard, with Molly and Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft arrives just as they do.

Mrs Hudson hisses at Mycroft and hits him in the shins with her umbrella until he stands back several paces.

_(Sherlock does not know why Mrs Hudson loathes Mycroft so)_

"Nasty man," she says. "I'm sorry, Sherlock dear, I know he's your brother, but I won't have him here."

_(does John know?)_

Sherlock meets Mycroft's eyes over her head, and Mycroft frowns and walks off. 

He plays for Mary slowly, letting his guilt and grief spill out with the music, and when it is over he looks up at the sky, not wanting to see John's face. Mrs Hudson weeps into her handkerchief, and Molly slides an arm around her shoulders. 

John stands beside him, Rosie in his arms, and presses his shoulder against Sherlock's arm. He says nothing, but he doesn't need to.

Three days later, Sherlock comes home to his bedroom rearranged, John's small double shoved against one wall, his own bed against the other, a bedside table between them, like in the old movies Mycroft loves. Two chests of drawers, shoulder to shoulder. He opens the wardrobe -- John only has one suit, his old dress uniform, a handful of shirts, and Mary's wedding dress to hang in the wardrobe, but there they are, alongside his much larger collection.

_(he'd asked John to stay, and John is staying, at least for now)_

That night, John sits facing him, his face serious. Their knees brush in the narrow space between their beds

_(he adores the feel of John's skin)_

John says, "Since I'm staying, we need to settle some things."

_(John is staying, at least for now)_

"John," he protests. "Things are settled. As long as you want to stay, I want you here."

John laughs, fond, low in his chest. "I know. Sherlock, I know." He grips Sherlock's shoulder, close to his neck, his thumb stroking over Sherlock's collarbone. "I want a parental responsibility agreement for Rosie, that's all. So that you're--so that if something happens to me, she can't be taken from you." He swallows. "Or if something happens to her, and they can't reach me, you can -- you can be there for her."

_(He wants to say, nothing will happen. Rosie has already lost one parent; surely she will not lose John)_

_(Sherlock hadn't been able to save her mother; perhaps one day he would be unable to save her father. He tries to imagine: losing John, and then someone -- Harry? -- taking Rosie from him)_

There's only one answer he can give to that, only one that is true, only one that says

_(stay with me, let me stay with you, let me love your child as my own)_

the truth of what is in his heart. "Yes. Of course, John."


	2. How close we come to never existing at all.

He remembers his early childhood now, but through a haze, or as if seeing it from the corner of his eye. He cannot quite view it clearly: Mycroft holding him, giggling helplessly into Mycroft's warm neck; the splash of the sea; a thousand ordinary days of reading, running, climbing.

_(Victor, who never grew up)_

Holding Eurus's hand and clambering over rocks.

_(Screaming until his breath was flecked with blood, until he was sick, Eurus laughing)_

He remembers her face, sweet and smiling, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but when no one was looking, or she thought no one was looking, all expression would vanish: flat, like something vital was missing. 

He'd liked Mycroft better, as a child. Was frightened of his sister, as a child.

_(He liked Mycroft better now. Was frightened of his sister now)_

How many times, after Eurus was gone, after his mind closed in on itself protectively, had he done the same thing? Turned on charm and let it fall away when someone turned their eyes aside? Manipulated them without thought for what it might do to them?

_(Mycroft telling him that the man he was was because of Eurus, and oh, it was true)_

_(it also wasn't true)_

_(Molly telling him that he looked sad when he thought John couldn't see him, and he'd realized he hadn't known. Hadn't known he had anything on his face in those moments.)_

_(how much of what Moriarty had done had been Eurus? How much of what she'd done was Moriarty?)_

John finds him curled up in his bed, fully dressed, staring into nothing. "Right," he says. "Up you get." John hauls him upright, checks his eyes with a light, then sighs. 

As if from the bottom of a deep, cold well

_(John shivering against him, wet and furious)_

he says "I didn't." Makes his eyes focus, find John's, fumbles his fingers around John's forearm. "I wouldn't," he says. "Not with Watson in the flat. I'd leave before I'd do that, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't." 

John's hand strays to Sherlock's head, cups his skull into one palm. "I didn't think you had. What's eating you, then," he says. 

Three hundred questions try to spill out of him at once, and he bites his tongue.

_("What if everything that is valuable about me is what I became after Eurus killed Victor?"_

_"What if I am not here, but somewhere else?"_

_"What if this is all a dream?"_

_"What if I died, truly died, long long ago? On the sidewalk, or in the fire at Musgrave, or in the well with Victor?")_

John's thumb is soft on his face, and damp with tears.

_(Why is John weeping?)_

_(Is it not John?)_

John's shirt is worn and his cardigan is scratchy. John's stomach is lean and solid, beneath the shirt. 

Blood is leaking from his tongue, and everything hurts in a bewildering way, where he isn't injured and he hasn't overused anything but somehow he hurts anyway.

_("Which one's pain?")_

"I don't know who I am, anymore," he says, into the warm reality of John's body, and John says "Ah, that one," and rocks him like a child.

*

Unreality persists, but so does reality. Sherlock goes to visit Molly at Bart's. He sweeps the morgue for bugs

_(After Sherrinford, he'd had a screaming fight with Mycroft about leaving Molly alone, about how the poor girl deserved a private life. Well, he'd screamed, and Mycroft had said, "For God's sake, Sherlock." He doesn't trust Mycroft not to bug her lab)_

and assists with two autopsies. 

"Molly," he says, weighing a set of lungs

_(Molly slapping him, outside her apartment, the bomb squad still checking it over)_

"I've never told you about my sister."

_(holding her as she wept against him, apologizing into her hair, smelling tea and oranges)_

"No, you haven't," she answers. There's a wrinkle between her brows.

_(wary, sad)_

He notes the weight of the lungs, and says, "She's -- very dangerous. The night I -- when I called you. I'd gone to see her. She threatened you, and I -- she wanted to hurt you."

She sighs. "I know. The police told me." 

His hands shake, and he sits, holding them in front of him. The gloves are slimy with lung surfactant. 

"I didn't know," he says, eyes on his gloves. "I -- I didn't know. How much damage could be done with -- she called it 'emotional context', my sister. She's the one who bombed Baker Street; I couldn't -- I couldn't let her--"

_(Moriarty had overlooked Molly; Eurus had rectified that mistake)_

"I should have told you," he says. "Right afterwards, as soon as I saw you. I couldn't -- I'm only now starting to be able to talk about her. I owed you an explanation and I couldn't bring myself to give it." He looks up at her. "I do -- care for you. But not -- not the way you'd like. I'm sorry."

"I never can decide if you're awfully sweet, or just awful," she says. "Honestly." Her face is calm, though; she's not upset with him. Her eyes are steady, with none of the nervous darting he expects from her

_(emotional context: she told him she loved him. She lanced a wound, and the infection has drained. She still loves him, but it no longer hurts her the same way)_

_(Eurus never could have predicted this outcome)_

_(would not have imagined it)_

_(would not have desired it)_

"Mostly I'm pants at being anyone's friend," he says.

_(he's unkind enough with the things he says about others, out loud, why not say something truthful and unkind about himself)_

She laughs, her funny nervous laugh that he has always secretly liked. "You're an idiot," she says, amiably. 

He studies the ooze drying on his gloves. "That's what John says," he agrees, and steps back towards the corpse.

_(towards his friend)_

*

Rosie is nearly four when Sherlock takes her

_(and John)_

to his parents' for Christmas. She rattles her way through their cottage, John tagging behind. Sherlock drinks brandy with his father, smokes with Mycroft, and returns to find his father searching the room -- "Dad?" 

"Where's that brandy got to?" his father complains. Sherlock inhales, smells his mother's cooking, smiles. 

"The kitchen. Here, I'll sort you out." 

He takes his father's snifter, and his father snorts. "Don't you dare drug me this time," and Sherlock offers him a mock-salute. Rosie streaks by, laughing, and Sherlock nips into the kitchen, fills his father's snifter, brings it back. "Good lad," his father says, happily ensconced on the sofa once more.

Sherlock returns to the kitchen, fills his own snifter. "This brandy's too good for cooking," he says, and Mummy laughs.

"If you can't use the good brandy at Christmas, when can you?" She pats his chest, then leans in and puts her head over his heart. "Oh," she says, "Sherlock, I can't help but think how alone your sister must be."

"We'll see her tomorrow," he says; he and Mycroft and their parents have been there every Boxing Day since they learned she was alive.

_(Leaning close to Mycroft, speaking too low for their parents to hear._

_"It doesn't matter that she doesn't speak, not to them. They want to see her. Want her to hear their voices."_

_A murmur, Mycroft's lips barely moving. "You know how dangerous she is."_

_"They love her. Emotional context."_

_"Loving her doesn't change what she is."_

_"No, but it doesn't have to."_

_The rise and fall of Mycroft's shoulders. "When did you get so wise, little brother?")_

"And all those years. How abandoned she must have felt." She shudders,

_(emotional lability)_

and he strokes her head

_(hair brittle and thinning)_

"and I can't quite forgive Mycroft."

_(he lets his hand drift down and come to rest on her neck, cupping the side in his palm, fingers spidering carefully towards her throat)_

"He was trying to protect me," he says.

She leans more heavily against him. "You were all right, dear. You were always the grownup."

_(faint bulge under his fingertips)_

"I wasn't," he says. "After --- everything, I had to be different. I stopped acting like a child, but I was still a child. I wasn't all right."

"You seemed better," she says, pulling away, looking up at him. "You were so young, and you -- you forgot -- you stopped being so upset all the time, the nightmares stopped. You seemed better." 

"Mycroft didn't think I was," Sherlock says. "And Mycroft was right. You should have listened to him." He tightens his arm around her and reels her back in. She smells of brandy and lavender.

"But you were fine," she says, into his chest, "you were fine, we could see you were fine--"

_(even now, she cannot see what was done to him)_

_(she chose to believe he'd chosen to grow up, and she clings to that)_

Rosie tumbles in and wraps her arms around Sherlock's legs. "Sherlock," she says, "pick me up!" He lets Mummy go and lifts Rosie high, then settles her on his hip. She heaves a contented sigh and rests against him. "My Shasha," she says, the baby name she still calls him sometimes

_(something twists inside his chest every time)_

and he laces his fingers around her back. "Daddy says he's too tired to chase me," she says, and then, "Can I have a biscuit?" 

"No, Watson," he says, but reaches past Mummy to pick up a cracker. "You can pull this cracker with me."

"And one for Daddy? And one for you and Daddy?" She lowers her lashes, smiles Mary's sly smile at him.

"Yes," he says, and she kisses him on the cheek.

"Let's do them together, in a triangle," she says, and squirms out of his arms, collects two more crackers, and runs off.

"Duty calls," he says, and then, "Do get your thyroid checked, Mummy." 

"Sherlock," she says, but he pretends not to hear her, follows the sound of Rosie's laughter away from the ruins of his childhood.

* 

John and Rosie leave the next day, and he and his parents and Mycroft take the helicopter to Sherrinford. Eurus is more abstracted than usual, until Sherlock walks up to the glass, presses his palm against it. Her attention snaps to him instantly.

She reaches for her violin and

_(the sharpness of her insult, telling him he didn't understand Bach -- and the sharper bite of knowing she was correct)_

begins Biber's "The Crucifixion"

_("you're all looking at me and I don't like it")_

He counters with "The Nativity"

_("It's Christmas")_

and she bares her teeth, points the bow at him.

_("Play you")_

He takes a deep breath, and plays Mary's requiem. She watches him, rapt, and behind him their mother says, "Oh," as if her heart is breaking.

When he finishes, Eurus smiles, and touches the glass in front of his face. He wishes he knew what that meant, but before he can figure out how to ask the question with his violin, she retreats to her bed and burrows beneath the covers.

She may not speak, but she communicates clearly enough, when she wants to. The four of them file out, leaving her behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violin pieces are:  
> Two of Biber's _Mystery Sonatas_ , which are Christian religious music based on the Catholic rosary:  
> ["The Crucifixion"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PE2u46Fl2eg) and ["The Nativity"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_nNxJt4cnc). These are fairly well-known pieces and I find all of the _Mystery Sonatas_ (there are 15) very beautiful.


	3. Every choice you make creates a universe where you made a different choice.

Sherlock does the school run. He never saw himself as a school run sort of person; too ordinary. But the thing must be done; Rosie cannot do it herself; the timing conflicts with John's shifts more often than not

_(it makes John go soft around the eyes when Sherlock does anything especially for Rosie)_

and therefore, the school run is his responsibility. Every morning, Rosie tucks her hand into his and follows him out the door, and they play Deductions the whole way. She is becoming a remarkable observer. He means to continue her training until -- well, until. It remains true that John might leave at any time. Right now, John has an arrangement with a woman named Kate, a little older than himself; they have dinner and sex a few times a month.

_(John is always home before midnight, lies breathing in his bed next to Sherlock's)_

It's perfect, but it could fall apart: she could want more, or she could meet someone else and give up John, and then John will have to resume the search.

_(The next woman -- there is always a next woman, with John -- might not be as obliging)_

Rosie tugs at his hand. She's six, and sharp-eyed, better at observation than her father.

"Shasha, that man is smoking. He's not supposed to. He's sneaking." He looks where she points. Sixty, give or take a few years. Lung function compromised. Promised someone he'd stop, promised his doctor; didn't. 

"Excellent," he says, and she beams up at him. He squeezes her hand.

Once at school, Rosie lets go of him and screams, "Freya!" Freya detaches from a group of children and runs into Rosie's embrace.

_(heterochromia iridis, and a few strands of white hair falling to one side of her face)_

It's nearly the end of term, and he's successfully made small talk, now and then, with other adults delivering other children to the school, all year, without introducing himself to anyone. That streak of luck was bound to end: one of the mothers comes over to him, smiling. "You're Rosie's father?" 

"No," he says. "Godfather." It's both a pleasure and a pain to say that: pleasure, because it's something he is to Rosie, a recognized social relationship that no one can gainsay; pain, because he wants her to be his child, and she is not. He's had parental responsibility, legally, for over four years now, but that doesn't make her his child.

"Oh!" She's surprised. He smiles his friendliest, falsest smile, flicks his eyes over her, cataloging her features.

_(Hair steel grey, although she's only about thirty-five; natural. Eyes widely spaced and heterochromatic. Waardenburg syndrome. Never diagnosed; no one's ever thought it anything but a family trait, like the almost-black auburn hair Sherlock shares with his siblings)_

"You must be Freya's mother," he says. "Rosie adores her. Did you want to set up a playdate?"

_(There's a signed legal document with Rosie's name on it, and his. His name is on all the school forms. There are records attaching him to her, her to him. A risk. But it also means he can arrange playdates, if he wishes, without consulting John)_

"Er," she says. "Yes, actually. Caroline." She gestures at her daughter, who still has her arms around Rosie. 

"Sherlock. Rosie's told me so much about her." He pauses, for a second, in case she wants to say something, but she seems a bit off-balance. Still trying to reorder herself from thinking he was Rosie's father, probably. "I'll give you my number, and John's -- her father. I'm afraid our home is not suitable for children who haven't had training in not touching delicate experiments, but perhaps an outing?"

He watches Caroline reorder again: godfather, but lives with her father. She's faster than most people. He can see her realizing that Rosie's mother must be dead

_(given the circumstances, Mary's death was hushed up; many people do not know. It's possible Caroline doesn't know who Sherlock is, in fact; she's betrayed no sign of recognition)_

and she thinks Sherlock moved in with John, afterwards, to help. It's close enough, and he is not about to explain; she now thinks better of him. Thinks he's a kind man, a good friend. She taps his number into her phone, and then John's. She's no danger to the stability of things: happily partnered

_(unmarried but committed, an old inexpensive necklace he gave her years ago around her neck)_

pregnant with a much-longed-for second child.

* 

He texts John about Rosie's potential playdate. He's likely with a patient and won't text back for some time. A quiet black car pulls alongside as Sherlock leaves the schoolyard. He rolls his eyes, but gets in without even token protest. He's done more and more work for Mycroft over the past few years; less for Lestrade. For one, Mycroft provides payment, which Sherlock puts away for Rosie. For another, Mycroft's work is more interesting, and

_(these days)_

less likely to kill him. It's still odd, not hating Mycroft. He doesn't let Mycroft into his private life, when he can avoid it, but there's no longer the seething, bitter roil when he sees him. He no longer begrudges the time spent in his brother's company.

_(He read a book once, where a person was constructed of other people, a pair of twin children for hands, a vicious amoral thing for a head._

_He and Mycroft and Eurus are like that now, a strange triad._

_The vicious amoral thing was taught shame, given a conscience, and that is what he should have been, but he was too young when Eurus broke under the strain of her own mind._

_In the years afterwards, he was his own kind of vicious amoral thing, and then there was John._

_It is because of John that he can be this now, part of a living and breathing thing with his cold brother and his deadly sister)_

Mycroft, of course, proceeds to anger him, just as he was considering their improved relationship. "I've been thinking of how difficult it is for Dr Watson to accompany you," he says. "Now that young Miss Watson is in school, I have been considering employing him on something of the same basis that I employ you. A bit more medical in nature, to be sure, but he would have considerable freedom." Mycroft raises his eyebrows, inquiringly. "And we'd provide a fully-vetted nanny, so you never need worry about childcare, of course."

Sherlock dissects this offer. John does not enjoy his current job; he dislikes that it takes him away from Sherlock, because he would prefer to work with Sherlock. He comes home from work with his left hand in his jacket pocket, his left forearm tense. When he hasn't had the chance to work with Sherlock for a while, the tremor returns. John, from the outside, is a responsible, serious-looking man of nearly fifty, neat, nothing but healthy habits, his worst vice the occasional drink.

_(John is not at all like that. John is a lethal fighter, a crack shot, addicted to danger; a loving father, a devoted friend, warmly funny. Ordinary is a skin John wears over his real self)_

_(Mycroft knows all of this)_

The nanny would be well-trained, late twenties. Attractive. Deliberately prettier than the woman John's been seeing. Probably instructed to flirt, informed it would be advantageous to have a sexual hold on John, thorough grounding in tradecraft. Installed into 221C, to be close but not to infringe.

_(Mycroft either thinks Sherlock needs help keeping John, or he is trying to drive a wedge between them. Most likely the former._

_John would inevitably discover the deception, which would not go at all well)_

It's also a transparent bid at Rosie, which Sherlock cannot allow.

"I don't need you interfering in John's sex life," he says. Lets Mycroft think he's missed the bit about Rosie.

"I thought you might prefer him to be...closer to home, that's all," says Mycroft.

"A sexual relationship with a nanny who lives in our building, very nice, that's not at all likely to disturb my domestic arrangements. A replacement mother, a replacement wife, and John doesn't even have to leave the building, just move downstairs. I don't want him downstairs, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks taken aback. "You can't want to keep sharing a room with him, Sherlock. It's ridiculous."

"Of course I want to share a room with him. For that matter, if he needs sex closer to home he could have sex with me. I wouldn't mind."

Mycroft blinks, obviously startled

_(He still thinks Sherlock is afraid of sex)_

and clears his throat. "Well. I can certainly find a nanny that will appeal less, if that's the primary concern."

John can handle the Rosie aspect himself; he'll spot it instantly, and Mycroft will take his refusal more seriously than anything Sherlock says. "Fine. But you'll have to ask him. I won't agree on his behalf." 

"No, of course not." Mycroft taps his fingers on his knees, and frowns. "It will take some time to arrange, you understand."

Sherlock tilts his head, narrows his eyes. Mycroft had a particular woman lined up, that much was clear; it is replacing her that will take time. "Was there anything else, brother mine?"

_(there is, it's obvious)_

Mycroft hands over a folder. "Here. A matter of some delicacy." He grimaces, though it's not much different from his habitual sour expression.

Sherlock opens the folder and begins to read.

_(He cannot only be a part of his siblings. He must also be Sherlock,_

_alone)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Sherlock read is _More Than Human_ , by Theodore Sturgeon.


	4. I still think about accidents, parallel universes, and fate.

Schedules being what they are, three weeks pass before they manage a playdate with Freya. John is meeting with Mycroft that day, so Sherlock swings Rosie up onto his shoulders and they set off together. It all starts well enough. He and Caroline and Caroline's partner Bill stand by the swingset and watch as Rosie and Freya run streaming past. "John couldn't come?" Caroline asks. Her belly is beginning to swell

_(Sherlock remembers the curve of Mary's body, laying his hand over Rosie's fetal foot and feeling it beat against him, the catch in his chest from the healing gunshot, John watching them and turning a thumb drive over and over in his hands)_

and she presses a hand to the side of it every now and then, shifting a little, uncomfortable.

_(Mary, two days before Rosie's birth, standing perfectly balanced on one leg, breathing deep and strong)_

"Job interview," Sherlock answers. "And he's just split with his girlfriend, so I'm afraid he's terrible company these days."

_(there'd been no precipitating factor that he could discern. John had simply come home early one night, quiet and angry, made Sherlock tea and shoved him over to sit beside him, turned on the telly, hasn't mentioned Kate's name since)_

Caroline and Bill laugh. Sherlock smiles and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

"What about you? Anyone in your life?" asks Bill, and Sherlock should have anticipated that question, really.

_(John. Rosie)_

"No," he says, "not at present." 

Three-quarters of an hour -- and a great deal of small talk -- later, Rosie runs up and hides behind his legs. "Mycroft's here," she says. "Or maybe just the new Anthea, by herself."

_(Anthea VI, only been in the role five months, pretty but nondescript, as all Antheas are)_

Rosie is a sensitive child, attuned to her father's dislike of Mycroft, to Sherlock's entrenched

_(affectionate?)_

wariness.

_(Mycroft had suggested once that she could call him "uncle", and Sherlock had put a restraining hand on John's arm, feeling his bicep twitch with the desire to smash Mycroft's face in. Rosie had said, "No, thank you," and run upstairs to her room)_

Sherlock looks, and sees Anthea headed directly for them. He sighs. This is about work, no doubt, and it's likely to put off Freya's parents and end the playdate early. "My brother's PA," he says to Bill and Caroline. 

Anthea stops, just out of arm's reach. "Mr Holmes," she says, never looking up from her phone, "you're needed at once. It's about Dr Watson. I'm to stay with Rosie."

"Is John--"

"He's fine, Mr Holmes." Sherlock narrows his eyes.

_(faint concerned line between her eyebrows, fingers pressing a touch too hard at her phone. Mycroft misplayed his hand; John's shocking, beautiful anger burned him)_

"And my brother?"

"Also fine, for the time being."

Any inclination Sherlock had towards letting Rosie finish her playtime vanishes. "Watson's coming with me."

"Not possible, Mr Holmes." 

Freya's parents look at each other. Anthea looks at her phone. Rosie presses her face into the back of Sherlock's thighs. "Watson is coming with me," Sherlock repeats. "Caroline, Bill, lovely to see you. I'm so sorry to cut this short." Platitudes. He's finally learned to be polite, for Rosie's sake. 

"Mr Holmes," says Anthea, a warning in her voice. 

Sherlock picks up Rosie, holds her tightly. She's a bony, strong child, and she digs her knees into his side, gripping him back just as tightly. They wait, and finally Anthea sighs. 

"Very well." 

*

The nanny, as it turns out, is the sticking point. John sees this

_(quite correctly)_

as Mycroft getting his long pale fingers all over John's life, as Mycroft making a first recruitment effort at Rosie. Mycroft would be mad not to recruit Rosie, who was born to an exceptional operative and a man who would have been an exceptional operative had he been properly identified

_(but he wasn't; they missed him entirely. Sherlock found him first, and he intends to keep him)_

and who is being raised by Mycroft's own brother. Anthea explains that John decided to express his opposition to the plan by disarming the intended nanny and holding Mycroft at gunpoint.

_(John is strong and fast and skilled at hand-to-hand combat, but he should not have been able to disarm anyone in Mycroft's employ, so the woman clearly either underestimated him or isn't properly trained)_

It is abundantly clear from Anthea's description that Mycroft presented the plan as a fait accompli; this is never the correct approach.

_(John forgives Sherlock for such things because he loves Sherlock. He does not love Mycroft, will forgive Mycroft nothing)_

Rosie giggles through the explanation, delighted by her father, as she should be.

_(John is a delight)_

John has also, clearly, been notified of their arrival. By the time Sherlock and Rosie enter the room, everything has returned to civilized hostilities: John stands by Mycroft's desk, arms crossed, lips a bloodless line across his face; the nanny

_(John might be attracted to her, but she doesn't sleep with men, so at least Mycroft held up his end of the bargain)_

is sitting beside Mycroft, the desk between her and John; Mycroft himself looks irritated. Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother. "If you wanted to recruit Rosie, you should have been more subtle about it," he says. "Did you honestly think John wouldn't notice?" 

"Good heavens," says Mycroft. "I'm not in the business of recruiting six-year-olds, Sherlock."

_(He's probably an excellent liar, if you don't know him)_

"Yes, you are," says Rosie. "It's obvious, isn't it? Anthea said on the way here that you were finding me a nanny. If you have nannies then they must know all sorts of government things. No one needs a nanny who knows government things unless you're going to teach whoever is being nannied how to do government things. You wouldn't pick just anyone, so you must have loads of nannies to pick from, and you wouldn't have loads of nannies unless you needed loads of children."

There are a few false assumptions in there, some flaws of logic, but Sherlock is desperately proud of her in that moment. He looks over at John, sees amusement and affection on John's face, warring with the anger.

"I have nannies on the payroll to recruit their parents, my dear child," says Mycroft. Like everything Mycroft says, it is only partially true.

_(he wonders how much damage Eurus did to Mycroft, still a child himself when she killed Victor and tried to kill Sherlock)_

"John," Sherlock says, and he can hear the naked longing in his voice.

_(he wants more of John, more of John's time, wants them never to have to work apart)_

John responds as he always does, a minute release of the tension in his shoulders, the faintest touch of heat in his gaze, as though if Sherlock gave him any reason to believe a romantic or sexual relationship was on the table, a fire would kindle.

_(Sherlock can count on one hand the sexual experiences he has had that were not related to work: three kisses at university, one marijuana-fueled handie in a car park, which was unrewarding and sticky._

_He would accommodate John, and John would -- do his best to make it pleasant, surely._

_The disruptive potential for such a thing is extraordinary, but he keeps circling back around to it in his thoughts. He's circled around it since early in their acquaintance, danger, fear, the scent of John's skin, the unusual feel of his body answering another's)_

John reads Sherlock, the clasp of Sherlock's hand on Rosie's, and nods. Turns to Mycroft, military-sharp. "Sherlock and I will choose a nanny. You can vet her, but like hell will I let your handpicked--" He breaks off, his eyes darting to Rosie, the muscle in his jaw working.

Mycroft's irritated expression deepens into displeasure. "Come now, you're being ridiculous--" 

Sherlock cannot see what John does with his face, but he knows what it is anyway. He's seen it turned on him twice in his life, can feel it crackling along his skin with the change in John's breathing, the way John's ribs expand slowly, the tiny muscular shift from hostile to dangerous.

_(John's unlikely to commit murder in front of Rosie, but he could do considerable damage short of that. Sherlock knows, vividly, the feel of John's hands at his throat)_

Mycroft stops talking. One hand is out of sight; he's armed himself.

_(tranq gun, almost certainly; Mycroft knows he cannot_

__(hurt John)__

__

_(hurt John)_

__

__  


__

_(h u r t J o h n)_

__

__  


_hurt John permanently or Sherlock will take him  
a p a r t)_

The nanny tenses, her eyes flickering nervously.

_(a hasty replacement, then, not fully trained, good enough to protect Rosie if backup is present; her ability to recruit Rosie more important than her combat skills)_

"Very well," Mycroft says, slowly, into the lengthening silence.

"Splendid," Sherlock says. "My dear brother, when will you understand that you must be up-front with John? Attempts to go 'round him are always a mistake. It's been more than a decade; you can't possibly be this stupid." 

"I care very much about your happiness," Mycroft says, never taking his eyes off of John.

_(John hasn't relaxed)_

"Yes," says Sherlock, "that's why you tried to recruit my daughter."

He realizes what he's said, feels humiliation creep along his skin,

_(she is not his daughter)_

but Rosie tightens her grip on his hand, and John's head moves, just slightly, just enough for Sherlock to see the quick tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. 

*

They don't talk about it, not directly. In their room, late at night, Sherlock says, "He's trying to make you stay with me." 

John snorts, softly. "As if there's any chance of me leaving you." 

Sherlock stretches his hand across the narrow gap between their beds, brushes his fingers on John's blankets. John feels it, or hears it, and turns, covers Sherlock's hand with his own.

_(not a lover's touch, but so intimate it makes his skin hum)_

He can feel John's heartbeat in his wrist. "He originally intended a nanny that was under orders to seduce you. To provide Rosie with a replacement mother. She'd live downstairs, so that you wouldn't leave." 

John laughs. "Oh God. Poor girl." He shakes; his bed shakes. He's still laughing, still has his hand over Sherlock's. "Can you imagine? All that training, and what's your mission? Live in London, be a nanny, shag a man twice your age." 

Sherlock smiles, in the dark. "Can you imagine someone giving Mary that assignment?" They're laughing together, now, and there's never been anything in his life like laughing with John. He was addicted from the very first time.

Eventually, they quiet down. John sighs, and he tightens his fingers around Sherlock's. "Look, he's your brother, and he's an idiot, so I'm not _actually_ going to punch his face in. But I am going to imagine it, over and over, with great pleasure." 

"Oh, please do," Sherlock says.


	5. I stared into mirrors for hours to see if I could fall in.

At the next playdate, Caroline says, "So -- John was interviewing with your brother?" He wishes she was less attentive, less sharp, but then Rosie and Freya wouldn't get on so well: Freya has inherited that sharpness, and Rosie, like her father, craves that edge in her friends.

Sherlock puts his friendly smile into place. "Yes -- John's former Royal Army Medical Corps, and Mycroft -- my brother -- does recruiting for places that need medical staff with clearances." It's true enough, after all. He slides his eyes sideways, studies her face, lets himself look amused. "They've never got on, though. Took Mycroft years to convince him to interview, and then they got into an argument during. I wish someone had videoed it so I could show our parents at Christmas."

Caroline giggles along with him. "He didn't get the job, I take it?"

"Oh, he did. He's too good at what he does for Mycroft not to hire him." 

Rosie and Freya run up, demanding grapes and cheese and juice, and Rosie climbs up on a bench and launches herself at Sherlock. He catches her, and she plops her head on his shoulder, content. "Shasha," she says, and stuffs a grape into her mouth. "Freya's my best friend," she says, with a happy sigh, and Caroline hides a smile. "Have you got a best friend?" 

Sherlock hands her another grape. "When I was your age, my best friend was named Victor. But now it's your dad." Rosie chews thoughtfully. 

"Are you still friends with Victor?" 

"No," he says.

_(She cannot see his face, but Caroline can; he sees in her suppressed flinch that she knows something happened to Victor)_

"But don't worry, Watson, I'll always be friends with your dad. Run along." She hops down, grabs a handful of cheese, and she and Freya are off again. 

"What happened to Victor?" Caroline asks, her voice very low.

_(he can hear Eurus singing, remembers digging under the beech tree til his hands bled, til his father pulled him away, screaming, screaming)_

"He drowned," he says, just as softly.

*

The lab at Bart's is the safest place to talk, Sherlock decides, as long as he does his regular bug sweep beforehand. He and John arrive shortly before Molly's shift ends. 

"Oh," she says, "I was just -- I'm almost done, do you need me to stay?" 

"Yes," says Sherlock, "but as a friend, Molly, not for work." 

"Oh," she says, again. "Could we not -- a pub, or? Not here?"

It's true that Mycroft is unlikely to have bugged Molly's local. He gestures for her to lead the way, and she rolls her eyes. "I've cleanup to do before I go, Sherlock."

"Ah, no," says John. "Sherlock'll help, won't you?" He nudges Sherlock, hard, in the small of his back.

_(John almost always layers minor violence with his affection, in public; a shield for the way he is too intimate with Sherlock's body._

_Given his dedication in recent years to keeping his fists to himself, he is probably unaware that he does it._

_Sherlock has not worked out how to tell him that he loves it, that he wishes John were -- just a little rougher with him, just enough to feel John's touch later)_

Molly really was nearly done; five minutes of helping tidy wins them her company for the evening and a taxi ride to her favorite pub.

_(acceptably downmarket and unremarkable, beneath Mycroft's interest)_

"John and I need to find a nanny for Watson," Sherlock says, mostly to the pint of cider John has shoved into his hand.

_(he loves cider, but rarely drinks it, but John knows him)_

"Ah," says Molly.

_(perplexed)_

"Mycroft wants to recruit Rosie," John says, "and we don't want a nanny that he's chosen." 

Molly still looks uncertain. "So what do you need me for?" 

"I need your brain," Sherlock says. "We need a nanny that can keep Watson safe, but that Mycroft won't've noticed beforehand." He waves a hand at John. "Mycroft's lot missed John until he moved in with me, somehow, don't know why, best if we can replicate the effect." 

Molly frowns. "Well, are you sure? I mean, John -- you're a bit of a --" she breaks off, frowning, then says "danger junkie," very softly. John shrugs, and Molly continues, "so, why did they miss John, then?"

"Possibly," Sherlock says, "they originally intended to pull him into classified work later, and abandoned that plan after he was invalided." He studies John carefully, as John takes a drink and pulls a face. "You were an athlete. A good one."

"Well. Not the best, but far from the worst, anyway."

"You're an excellent shot, a substantially better marksman than you have any need to be."

_(John makes a face that means "Molly doesn't know about my gun, you cock")_

"And you were a surgeon. Overall, extremely coordinated, strong, fast, not as much of an idiot as most people." 

"Yeah, thanks for that, Sherlock, Jesus." 

"I'm trying to analyze what would attract them to you, John, and yet you'd end up overlooked." 

"Maybe because I'm a doctor?" John says. "I mean, if someone already has valuable specialized training, it doesn't make much sense to waste it." 

"Hm. Maybe. Or you were good, but not good enough to stand out."

_(John's gaze flickering downwards, saying he'd seen enough violent death for a lifetime; the rasp of arousal in his voice as he agreed to see more; John standing out like neon in the dark after he shot the cabbie; John sliding into the skin of an ordinary man)_

John rolls his eyes, but Molly leans in. "Maybe -- someone who has the type of skills that might appeal, but -- isn't top of anything, then?" She shakes her head and bites her lip. "You know. League Two footballers, that kind of thing. Or someone who had a career-ending type of injury." She takes a sip of her pint, and frowns. "Or," she says, slowly, feeling the words out, "someone who has interests that aren't -- exploitable. A champion clay shooter with an Early Childhood degree. Someone who'd make a pants assassin but a decent bodyguard."

_(yes)_

Sherlock smiles, and clicks his half-empty pint against Molly's. "You're brilliant, Molly Hooper," he says. 

*  
John returns to therapy, again. He'd seen Ella for over a year, then stopped; now he starts up again, with a new therapist whose name he refuses to tell Sherlock. 

"Why are you doing this," Sherlock asks, annoyed. He's John's best friend; John should talk to him. Besides, the only people John has punched in recent years have all been appropriately criminal targets. 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, lately," John says. "And I don't need the second-most annoying man that I know deducing me before I have a chance to do that thinking."

Sherlock sits up from where he's been lying on the floor, idly turning one of Rosie's puppets inside-out and back again. "Second-most -- who's more annoying than I am? Oh, Mycroft." 

"No," John says, "Rosie's teacher is the absolute worst." 

"He doesn't annoy me."

"He's terrified of you and won't talk to you," John says. "I get it all: Rosie brought bones to school again, Rosie told another student her father was having an affair, Rosie brought acid to school and made a carbon snake."

_(Sherlock had helped her pack that last one for transport so that she could deploy it to maximum effect)_

"None of this answers why you're back in therapy," Sherlock says. John clearly doesn't want to answer him, and he is, unfortunately, practiced in ignoring Sherlock. He studies John instead, because in general John is not good at hiding.

_(tired, slightly on edge, eyes sliding away from Sherlock)_

"Are you moving out?"

"No!" John snaps his head up and straightens his shoulders. "God, no, Sherlock. No."

_(Sherlock cannot help but be uneasy)_

"Good," he says, and drops back down to the floor. John sighs and moves close, nudges Sherlock's head gently with his bare foot. 

"Think of it like talking to your skull," he says, meeting Sherlock's eyes upside-down. "I can't talk to you, because you make a terrible skull. So I talk to a therapist."

Sherlock tosses the puppet at him, and John snatches it out of the air, smiling.


	6. How tempting it is to think there is some force, guiding us irrevocably toward the people or places that will make us happy.

Sherlock brings two full copies of his newest composition to Sherrinford, and slides one copy through to Eurus. Her guards have been replaced again, and the new ones watch them with suspicious alertness.

_(the old ones had become complacent)_

Eurus strokes the composition lovingly, smiles at Sherlock, plays a few bars of "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" at him,

_("you're sweet")_

runs her finger over the title,

_(Duo for Violin: "Play With Me, Eurus" by Sherlock Holmes)_

raises her violin, and he raises his, tucks it into his shoulder, watches

_(she has tears in the corners of her eyes)_

her.

_(broken things)_

_(he is not the one of them with the personality disorder)_

_(he remembers the shock of discovering he loved John)_

_(he hadn't known he was capable of love)_

_(if John had died at Eurus' hands, he would have added another murder to his tally)_

She weeps as she plays, as he plays, as the music joins them together.

_(the only person she loves, in her twisted way, is Sherlock himself)_

When they've finished, she smiles,

_(her face quiet, for once, rather than alert-still)_

plays the opening bars of the second movement of Honegger's "Sonatine pour deux violons"

_(an invitation)_

and he joins in.

_(she skipped the first movement on purpose: "this is just for us, the second and third children")_

*

He returns home, thoughtful and disquieted. John looks up from his book

_(Rosie is asleep)_

and smiles at him. There is something secretive about it, some curve to John's mouth that

_(he did something without me)_

_(something he is not telling me, did not tell me)_

_(the worry that has ridden him since John returned to therapy swells in the pit of his stomach)_

itches along his nerves. He swallows, hangs up his coat, watches John make tea for both of them. Their fingers brush as John passes him the teacup, and John's eyes crinkle

_(fondly)_

softly. "You brought her the music," he says, "the composition you've been working on?" 

"Yes."

"Did she like it?"

_(John doesn't care if Eurus liked it, not really; he cares that Sherlock isn't throwing his affection into a void. Sherlock knows full well that's exactly what he is doing, and yet he is doing it anyway.)_

_(There are those who thought John was throwing his affection into a void, and yet here he is, for as long as Sherlock can hold him)_

"She...as much as she likes anything, John. I can't say I understand her." He scrubs one hand over his face. "She thanked me for it, in her way."

_(v o i d)_

"Mm," John says, into his teacup. "Something to show you, in our room."

_(secret tugging at the corner of his mouth)_

Sherlock feels dread and anticipation curling inside him, turns, takes the necessary steps, pushes open their bedroom door. 

The two beds are gone, replaced with one substantially larger, a bedside table to either side of it, floorspace that he hasn't seen in years, and he breathes through shock, through feeling stabbed in the heart.

_(intimacy, affection, fear: one day he will ask too much, or John will, and they will split apart, dehiscing, some seed of themselves spilling outwards, never to return)_

John's hand is on his back, between his shoulder blades. "We're not," Sherlock begins, but doesn't know how to finish the thought.

_(Romantically involved? Lovers? Partners? Together?_

_the thought of claiming he and John aren't together is ludicrous in the extreme: they live together, work together, are raising a child together._

_and yet. and yet.)_

John's hand is so warm. "Mm. Do you know why I ended things with Kate?"

_(oh)_

"No," he manages. 

"She thought I ought to move out of here." Sherlock cannot see his face: John is still behind him. "Not in with her, nothing like that -- we both liked what we had -- but away from you. Get a little normality in my life. She thought

_(something in his voice, some venom)_

that it was ‘a bit silly', me living here with you."

_(derision, rough edge of anger; a hard line crossed)_

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, and John smiles.

_(rueful, a little sad, firm)_

"And I thought, I'd rather be closer to him than farther away. That's what I thought." His eyes are steady. "And I thought, what's silly is barely being able to move in the bedroom because we've put two beds in there. What's silly is that three nights a week we hold hands in the gap and it's bloody uncomfortable and we do it anyway." He wrinkles his nose sideways, sniffs, looks at Sherlock with nothing but calm amusement on his face. "And you steal my pillow and smell it."

_(he'd hoped John didn't know about that)_

"I don't."

"You do." John moves forward and bumps his shoulder against Sherlock's, and suddenly he wants to feel John's hands on him, and has no idea how to make that happen. 

He wonders if he can bait John into it. "Admit it, John, it's just a ploy to get me into bed." He sees the moment when John, years ago, would have playfully

_(roughly, laughing)_

shoved him a step to the side. John takes a deep breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, instead, so Sherlock jostles him with his shoulder once, then harder, then again, and finally John says "Are you -- are you trying to get me to hit you?" 

"No."

"You are. You absolute cock."

_(genuine anger in his voice)_

"I'm--" Sherlock says, and then he cannot say more, because he doesn't know how. 

John stares at him for a moment,

_(anger, disbelief, astonishment, amusement, chasing over his features)_

laughs and takes Sherlock by both shoulders, spins him around, and walks him backwards until his knees hit the bed and he drops onto it. John puts one hand on his chest and topples him over onto his back. "All you had to say was that I was being too emotional and you couldn't possibly be expected to deal with my feelings," he says, but he's smiling. He lies down next to Sherlock.

"You won't be able to bring anyone round," Sherlock says.

"I didn't in any case. As you know." 

Sherlock soaks in the feel of John, warm and lean against him. "Which side is mine?" he asks, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violin piece is:  
> Honegger's "Sonatine pour deux violons", second & third movements. A performance by Andreas Kunz and Désirée Pousaz is available on YouTube; [the second movement starts at timestamp 209](https://youtu.be/aISowLdQ-PM?t=209).
> 
> This violin duo is rarely performed, experimental, and difficult. It's worth listening to the whole piece (it's less than 10 min long) but I have to admit it's neither easy nor entirely pleasant to do so. I like the second movement best of the three. I would honestly not expect most violinists to have ever played this piece, and definitely not to be able to play it without sheet music available, but let's pretend for the sake of the story that Sherlock and Eurus both know it well.


	7. Think of all the choices that first brought you face to face with the person you love the most in the world.

They hire a nanny. Daisy is twenty-three, an accomplished biathlete, though not quite good enough to go to the Olympics. She likes cyclo-cross and target shooting, and dabbles in horseback riding, and she has no ambitions beyond taking care of children and having plenty of time out-of-doors. 

She is absolutely delighted to teach child-appropriate versions of all her favorite activities to Rosie, and further delighted by the generous allowance provided for said activities.

_(Mycroft wisely refrains from bribing her, or contacting her directly at all, but he does pay her salary, and her rent at 221C)_

Sherlock sits down with her and with a paper file on Eurus. "This is my sister," he tells her. "She was younger than Rosie when she committed her first murder. She has escaped prison before."

Daisy looks at the photographs, skims the summary of Eurus's psychosis, the bare details of the murders she has committed. 

"I knew there was a reason you offered me three times the going rate," she says, "but this is a bit of something, isn't it?" Her face creases; she is young but spends a lot of time in the sun, and her skin is starting to show it. "Well. Target shooting for Rosie, first, then, and I'll see if I can't do something about -- knife throwing, maybe?" 

Sherlock smiles, slowly, and says, "How do you feel about horse archery?" 

"How's that going to help if your sister escapes?" Daisy says, frowning.

_(Sherlock wants Rosie to learn horse archery because it will drive John spare)_

"It really won't. You'd enjoy horse archery, though, and so would Watson."

Daisy shakes her head and says, "Tell me more about this, how to protect Rosie if anything happens." 

"If you see her," he says, "run." 

"I'm going to need a bit more detail than that," she answers, and Sherlock knows they've chosen well. 

He has a detailed plan ready.

*

Just before school starts up again, John leaves his work at the surgery for good, signs a thousand pieces of paper at Mycroft's office, and finally comes along to a playdate with Freya. Bill likes him; Caroline is terrified of him and trying to hide it. "So you were in the army," she says, and John smiles his polite, bland smile, the one that makes most people forget him -- or trust him -- instantly.

Caroline thinks it makes him look like a serial killer

_(thinks she's being unkind)_

and Sherlock drifts away from the conversation, watching Rosie and Freya spin like tops on the grass. John laughs at something Bill says, his eyes crinkling up

_(John's laugh rolling over Sherlock like thunder)_

Caroline jumps when John laughs, a sharp vibration in the air. 

Sherlock refocuses: why did she jump?

_(Faint blush, shiver: she blames herself for jumping, but she was frightened. If Caroline is too frightened, she will prevent Freya from playing with Rosie; Sherlock cannot allow that)_

He says, "Has John told you the story yet of when I was his best man," and John laughs again. Caroline does not jump this time, because she is instantly distracted by the thought of getting to know about Rosie's mother, however tangentially.

"I'm not telling this story," John says, "it's completely mad -- let's just say that Sherlock's best man speech was one for the ages -- and luckily Mary was the type who could roll with anything. Not quite what she had in mind for our wedding, though."

"Mary knew what she was getting into," Sherlock says, because Mary had; she'd known what Sherlock and John were, by then.

"This one planned the whole wedding with Mary," John says, gesturing at Sherlock. "She adored him. Most of the women I dated couldn't stand him for a second."

"Mary had excellent taste," Sherlock says. "Her only flaw was her bizarre desire to live in the suburbs." 

John's eyes flicker to him and away

_(and of course there was her misjudgment: she hadn't understood John's ability to love dangerous people as well as she should have, not at first. They could have avoided so much pain. Still. She knew by the end)_

but he is still laughing, softly.

_(Mary's memory no longer leaves him raw and bleeding)_

"You must miss her very much," Caroline says, her eyes wide.

_(she'd had a sick little fear that John had killed Mary, and it has subsided now; Sherlock counts his goal achieved)_

"I do," John says, "don't think I'll ever meet anyone who measures up to the standard, really."

"Must be hard," Bill says.

"I've got wonderful help," John says. "Couldn't've done it without Sherlock, and Molly -- Molly's Rosie's godmother, she's fantastic."

Sherlock refrains from mentioning that Molly cuts up dead people for a living, and keeps him in body parts. John raises his eyebrows

_(he can tell what Sherlock is not saying)_

and smiles, and Sherlock basks in John's smile, pleased at being seen.

_(John always sees him)_

*

It is easier to speak to John, in the dark.

_(feeling the faint radiation of John's body heat, the dip of the bed)_

"I used to think, what if Mrs Hudson and I renovated, connected 221C and 221B into one enormous flat, would you and Mary and Rosie move in with me? I thought that would be marvelous."

_(John lies facing him, his hands under his head, his eyelashes flickering down, up, down again)_

"I didn't—John, you know I didn't understand—anything, really. Mycroft used to tell me 'caring is not an advantage' and I — for a long time I didn't care, so it didn't matter. And then I did."

_(Mycroft had been trying to shore up the hastily-built walls of Sherlock's self, the self built by a distraught child, long ago, the self Mycroft feared collapsing)_

"The first time I saw you with Mrs Hudson," John says, "I knew you cared about her."

"Did I? I didn't know."

_(a warmth in his stomach when he thought of her, something protective and amused and happy when she embraced him and he felt her soft skin and fragile bones in his arms)_

"I know you didn't," John says, and he grips Sherlock's shoulder firmly. Sherlock wants to roll into John's body and be held, warm and human in the dark, but instead he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I still haven't — I haven't found all the ways Eurus damaged me," he says, unable to look at John, afraid of what he might see.

John's fingers are in his hair, pushing it back from his face, tucking it around his ear. 

"It might take you the rest of your life to heal," he says. "Do you think I don't know about damage like that? You know what I'm like when I'm angry, Sherlock."

"Not anymore," he answers, because

_(John in Mycroft's office, Mycroft's hand beneath the desk)_

he amends, "not with me, or Watson." He listens to John's steady breathing. "I understand that my parents were shocked by what Eurus had done"

_(Mummy gasping as if she'd been struck)_

"and that they — they didn't know how to help me, afterwards"

_("Just let him be, Mycroft. It's better this way. He's so much better."_

_and Mycroft, his voice breaking, "how, how is this better, he won't even talk to me anymore")_

"but I'm not certain I can forgive them. I cannot— John, I would never leave Rosie to handle something like that, on her own." He hopes, desperately, that John believes him.

John brushes his fingertips over Sherlock's cheek. "Of course you wouldn't. You have a thing."

"A thing?"

John laughs.

_(quiet huff in the dark, almost too soft to hear)_

"A saving Watsons thing."

Sherlock opens his eyes, finally, watches John's face in the streetlights bleeding through the window. "There you are," John says. "The best man I know." He is close enough that Sherlock could press against him, could kiss his cheek. "What have I ever done to deserve you?" he asks, and tugs Sherlock close.

_(the briefest of embraces, there and gone, infinitely tender)_

*

John leaves one Friday evening, after dinner. Sherlock is examining slices of rabbit liver under his microscope, and Rosie is asleep. "Don't wait up," John says, as he hasn't since Kate, and Sherlock snorts quietly. "I know," John says. "It's not as if you're going to sleep anyway." He rests his hand on Sherlock's back for a moment, and is gone.

He returns after midnight, as Sherlock is typing up his observations. He is slightly rumpled and smells faintly of sex when he walks by Sherlock

_(semen, latex, vaginal fluids, sweat, human musk)_

to get a glass of water. Sherlock watches him drink it, watches the cant of his body against the sink, the way some strain around his eyes has eased.

John is halfway into the loo when Sherlock says, "Don't shower on my account."

"Beg pardon?" 

Sherlock blinks at him. "I don't mind you smelling like you've been having sex, John." A smile tugs at one corner of John's mouth. 

"No?" He stands in front of Sherlock, who closes his laptop, stands up, leans into his space, inhales close to John's ear.

"I don't have sex, John. I don't want to have sex. But I like what it does to you, when you have it. That's all." 

"Hm," John says. "I'll just clean my teeth, then." He looks thoughtful, amused, but not at all alarmed, not at all as if Sherlock has crossed a line.

Sherlock slides into their bed two hours later, and John makes a sleepy noise and rolls towards him, then stirs himself to wakefulness. 

"I never have quite figured out you and sex," John says, quietly. 

Sherlock hesitates, because the truth is that he has never had a good way to speak about it. "Mycroft thinks I'm afraid," he says. "For the longest time, I didn't understand why he thought that, but now--"

John shifts, props his head on his hand. "He thinks it's because of Eurus."

"Yes."

"And you don't know if it is, or if it's not."

_(everything is easier, when John understands)_

"Yes."

John watches him for a few moments, frowning. Eventually, he says, "We're none of us made what we are by one thing. And -- well. My father was a violent drunk. Someone looks at that, and looks at me, and they say oh, that's where he gets his mean streak. Only -- it's not like that. When I look at myself, at what I got from him, I see -- that dream I had of myself, right? The house in the suburbs and the wife and kids and the nice safe job. That's what he wanted -- that perfect, ordinary life."

_("You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more  
than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie.")_

"The dream of every man, to be _completely ordinary and pointless_ \--" 

"Shut up, I'm trying to be serious, you cock," John says, somehow managing to sound both exasperated and amiable. "I've spent a lot of time in therapy, figuring this out, and you're getting it for free, so don't ruin it." Sherlock nods, and after a moment, John continues. "That's what he raised me to want, and that's what -- that kept tripping me up, over and over again, for years. And it made me so angry not to have it, but when I did have it -- thought I had it -- it made me angrier." He falls silent, flops over to his back. Sherlock studies his face. "So," John says, " _are_ you afraid of sex?"

"No."

"Does it bother you, that you don't get off with people?"

"No. Only, it bothers them, sometimes. People think I ought to. You think I ought to, you've said it often enough." 

"Why would you listen to me, you think I'm an idiot," John says, and Sherlock giggles, pressing his forehead against John's shoulder.

_(John's bare chest rises and falls, in the warm dark of their bed)_

"So," John says, slowly, after Sherlock's laughter has subsided, "does it matter, really, why you don't? If it doesn't bother you?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, close to John's warm skin. John still smells of sex, overlain now with the smell of their shared bed. "It bothers me that I don't know if it is something inherent to myself."

_(so much of himself is obscured from his vision, still. Childhood memory can seize him and shake him, these days)_

He curls into John's warmth, presses his cheek to John's shoulder. "I like this," he says. "I don't want to do -- other things. Just -- " He is uncertain how to explain, but

_(John sees him)_

John draws him closer, until Sherlock is wrapped along his body from shoulder to knee, and threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "It is what it is," John says.


	8. Backward and forward through time, infinitely, forever.

If he'd thought about it, which he hadn't, Sherlock would have thought Eurus would outlive him. She halts in the middle of playing, lowers her bow, lowers the violin and looks at him, her eyes full of tears, and speaks out loud for the first time in years.

"Cancer," she says, "sweet brother." 

He reaches out, touches the glass

_(it is there)_

and answers, "You know I can't tell if you're lying, Eurus."

She laughs, low and rough, and says, "That's why I'm telling you the truth." She touches the glass from the other side, spreading her hand wide to match his. 

"Does Mycroft know?"

She shakes her head. "I haven't been diagnosed yet. But I will be. It'll be too late to help me; it's too late now." Her voice is high and drifting, eerie.

_(Softer than he remembers. She's relieved at being able to stop living)_

She searches his face. "I'm not sorry," she says. "I'm not. You mustn't think I'm anything but pleased at what I did." 

"I know," he says, and sets down his bow and violin, "but I learned to love from John, you see."

_(she doesn't)_

He presses his hand to the glass again. "I haven't forgiven you. I haven't forgotten what you did. But I can love you despite that."

_(John knows how to love through rage, how to love through pain, how to love the monstrous without forgetting that it is monstrous)_

She weeps, ragged and painful, and he stays with her as long as he can.

 

*

Daisy asks them to come along on a roller ski outing, "to see how Rosie's doing." John is enthusiastic; Sherlock eyes John with -- he is aware -- undue suspicion, since John has shown no

_(inappropriate)_

attraction to Daisy whatsoever. He is well aware that he is not at all reasonable, where John's time and attention are concerned.

John is a natural on roller skis, which Sherlock is not; Rosie laughs at them both and takes off ahead, racing with the other children in the club. Daisy hangs back and offers to help, but Sherlock shakes his head and she follows the children. John stays by his side. "We've found the one thing you're not coordinated enough to do," he says, as Sherlock fails to push himself forward properly.

"How did you learn so quickly?" Sherlock asks, irritated.

John smirks. "YouTube." Sherlock narrows his eyes, and John laughs. "Unlike some people, I didn't assume I would just magically be able to do this. So I did some research." He hops to the side, giving Sherlock room. "Here, come on, do some balance exercises with me." He hops again, landing firmly on his wheels without rolling in the slightest. 

"Wouldn't you rather be with Daisy?" Sherlock says, bracing himself for a fall. 

John taps him on the shins with a pole. "No. Now jump." 

Sherlock gives a tiny hop, and his right leg slides out from under him. He catches himself on his poles, and glares at John. "This is pointless."

"It's not. Rosie loves it when we do things with her. Try again."

Sherlock hops again, and this time his feet stay in place. He looks up, and John -- John has the most extraordinary expression on his face,

_("That was...amazing.")_

some kind of deep, shattering warmth. He smiles, and for a moment -- if they were the sort of people who did such things -- Sherlock thinks John is going to kiss him. Instead John laughs, softly, and says "All right, now one leg, let's see that massive intellect at work," and Sherlock frowns, but obeys.

"See," John says, "nothing to it. You're not going to let an child defeat you in a contest of skill, are you?" 

He doesn't know why he says it, but it is out of his mouth before he can stop it: "Eurus is dying."

John moves, more rapidly than he should be able to, on the unfamiliar roller skis. He slots his skis between Sherlock's, pulls him in by the hips, wraps his arms around him. His poles clack against each other, behind Sherlock's back. 

"Don't," Sherlock says, "don't ruin this for Watson, she just wants us to--"

"Hush," John says, and Sherlock does. 

*

He sees Eurus only twice more before she dies. John comes with him, the last day.

_(a cold spring day, wet and chilling. All he can think of is John's cold damp skin when he came out of the well but John is here now, shaking raindrops out of his hair)_

His mother and father and Mycroft and John all stand about her bed with him. She opens her eyes and mouths his name, her body trembling with effort,

_(he wonders what could have been, if she hadn't broken as a child)_

he takes her hand,

_(defensive wounds on his mind, on his heart; John telling him he will heal)_

she goes still and quiet, and slips away, her fingers going cold in his.

He shivers with Mycroft in the cold, passing a cigarette back and forth. His parents are with Eurus's body. He is not certain where John is.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, softly. "Are you all right?"

"No," he answers.

_(Mycroft's body, warm and soft against his when he was small and pounced on his beloved older brother, laughing._

_Mycroft's hands, firm under Sherlock's arms as he swung him up into the air, his eyes bright in the summer sun._

_Mycroft's arms, strong around him as Mycroft screamed at their parents that he didn't care how smart Eurus was, all he cared about was that she was going to kill Sherlock if they didn't stop her, that he'd stop her if he had to, that he was going to take Sherlock and run away, his voice going ragged and increasingly desperate._

_How cold and quiet it had been when he'd cut Eurus and caring out of his mind. How suddenly Mycroft's comforting strength and warm, familiar body were alien and repulsive)_

_(He wonders if he would have been better off never remembering these things, because remembering them he also remembers Mycroft dashing angry tears from his eyes, Mycroft drawing back, Mycroft pretending not to be hurt by his rejection, Mycroft fumbling in his child's way to help the stranger who had replaced his baby brother. Mycroft learning to love a changeling)_

Mycroft brushes his fingers against Sherlock's sleeve. 

"Am I really only what she made me?" Sherlock asks, and he can hear the despair in his voice.

_("Every choice you ever made, every path you've ever taken. The man you are today is your memory of Eurus.")_

"No," says Mycroft, firmly, and hands back the cigarette. "And if you don't believe me, ask John. Or your little girl. They're what she never would have permitted you to have, and yet...." He lets the sentence hang, unfinished.

Sherlock goes to take a last drag on the cigarette, and suddenly it's gone. John is there, holding it

_(plucked it out of Sherlock's hand)_

and he says, "Time to go," and grinds it out beneath his heel, on the cold rocks of Sherrinford.

_(Sherlock will never stand here again, never carry his violin through the wind and sea-spray down into the prison, never see her clear grey eyes._

_Never need fear she will break free. Never guard anyone he loves from her, not ever again.)_

When he and John arrive home, Rosie is already asleep, and the flat is dark and quiet. He removes his coat and scarf and John is making tea, and he's sitting down,

_(sudden shock of grief)_

and he's curled into John's shoulder, John's hand warm on his waist and back, John's steady breathing under his ear, the rumble of soothing noises, warm smell of skin and aftershave and detergent and wool.

_(this grief is for the sister he had, but also for the one he might have had, the life he might have had, that she and he and Mycroft might all have had, unbroken)_

Sherlock cannot remember the last time he held on so tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a decent cross-country skiier who cannot for the life of me manage roller skis, nor skikes. I still don't know why.


	9. You were late, but he waited for you.

He prepares slides of pollen and honey scraped from under the fingernails of a murder victim.

_(Case for Donovan, a DI now, who still hates him but calls him in occasionally, always with something interesting)_

The mixture is heavy, sticky, like summer nights, like the weight of expectation. It is the thinnest of clues, but Sherlock chases it anyway: the sprawl of the victim's body, the obscurity of the method, the unknown motive, driving him onward.

It's Sherlock's birthday. He's forty-five. Rosie is at Freya's for the night; both Freya and her younger brother Charlie adore her. John still makes Caroline nervous; Caroline still blames herself for being uneasy about a perfectly nice man.

_(She is unusually perceptive about dangerous men. Sherlock cannot think of a way to tell her this that will not rebound on Rosie)_

Irene texts, and John

_(writing a report across the lab. Cardigan with elbow patches, jeans, gingham shirt gone soft from the heat of his body)_

giggles into his hand. "Still," he says. "Every year I think no, this year, surely not, but she's like clockwork."

"Well, you know," Sherlock says. "She's carrying a torch." He texts her back. He does text her back, every year, just Thank you, but it's pleasant to do so.

_(A spark, a memory of vague desire. He remembers her smell and the texture of her skin against his hands, the weight of her body against his thighs. Her mouth, cold mint and hot blood and lipstick, sliding over his, teeth in his lower lip, nails digging into his arms)_

She'd been very interesting, and he likes knowing she's still out there.

_(it is the closest he's ever come to sex with another person; she hadn't understood why he wouldn't, why he slid his body away from hers)_

"All these years," John says, "and you never did take my advice, did you?" His eyes are sharp, wary. There's an expression in them that Sherlock does not know how to read.

"Which advice?"

"To go after her. Or if not her, someone. To -- " and here he breathes in, out of place, jarring the rhythm of the sentence, "find yourself someone who loves you." He looks discomfited now, uncertain, faint edge of anger. "However it is you want to be loved."

_(shock of pain: John -- how does John still not know --)_

"John," Sherlock says, and holds John's gaze. "Don't play dumb."

_(he braces for the killing blow, for John to say -- "Who, me?" or "You must be joking" or --)_

The unknown expression intensifies for the barest second before John drops his eyes, smiles, says, "Yeah, all right," and goes back to his report.

_(The blow does not come._

_John does not, this time, say that love will complete Sherlock as a person. John does not push back. John's fingers tap at the keys of his laptop)_

Sherlock finds his hands are trembling.

*

The pollen grains ought to be lily

_(the murdered woman had been arranging a vase of lilies)_

but aren't; likely she'd clutched at her killer, likely the killer had been

_(eating? carrying?)_

covered in honey

_(beekeeper?)_

and the grains are from the bees' food source.

_(homicidal beekeeper?)_

He dilutes the pollen-honey scraping with water and alcohol, and only then finds that the lab centrifuge is broken, an apologetic note sellotaped to it. John looks up at his annoyed huff. "What's wrong?" 

"Broken centrifuge." 

John laughs. "That's what I should've bought you for your birthday. A centrifuge for the kitchen. Next year, maybe." Sherlock considers calling Molly to let him into the lab next door, or just picking the lock, but then John rubs a little at his bad shoulder, rolls it out, and Sherlock decides the centrifuge can wait. He labels his samples carefully before tucking them into the space he's allowed in the lab fridge.

_(homicidal bees?)_

He leaves a note for Molly -- "Honey in her hair? Anywhere else on her skin? Stomach contents? Need working centrifuge. SH", and smiles at John. "Shall we?" 

They go to get a takeaway: they leave together

_(arms brushing)_

get a cab

_(leaning on each other)_

get a curry

_(quarreling about which curry shop is better)_

arrive home

_(sitting across the kitchen table, laughing)_

and eat, the way they used to, just the two of them. Sherlock misses Rosie, who pretzels her legs up instead of sitting straight, and who would have insisted on cake. "We'll have cake tomorrow," John says; of course John noticed him looking at Rosie's empty chair. 

"Pointless ritual," Sherlock says, because he always mocks birthday cake and always eats it. He's fed it to Rosie, scrubbed it out of her hair, suggested to John that they get a dog to clean it off the floor. If someone had told him when they met that his friendship with John would result in so much domesticity, he would never have believed them; more, he would not have believed in its small satisfactions.

_(Rosie's hand in his; stroking her hair when she has a fever and feeling her press sadly against him; the sound of her voice; the scrape of her violin bow._

_John, making their bed with military tidiness; folding laundry together while watching bad telly; the clatter of washing-up)_

They sit down on their usual chairs with tea. John watches him, still and thoughtful; this mood in him usually precedes a gentle, devastating deduction, a laying-open of Sherlock's heart, a wound worth the earning. He props his elbow on the arm of the chair, rests his head on his hand, flicks one finger towards Sherlock. "You wish she was yours," he says, and Sherlock

_(the world stops)_

cannot breathe. 

"I." He coughs, clears his throat, manages to meet John's eyes. "Please don't think I'm unhappy with our arrangement."

"You know you're as much her father as I am," John says.

"Not legally," he says, before he can stop himself. "I'm not legally her father."

_(she can't be taken from him, not easily, not even by John himself, but--)_

"We have a parental responsibility agreement." Sherlock doesn't answer. "I had to -- they don't normally do that, if someone's not a step-parent. Mycroft helped. But if it's not enough for you -- do you want to adopt her?"

"We --" His heart stutters in his chest. He's -- researched this. Wondered. He never thought John would ask. "John --" He wants to say yes, but he cannot seem to make the word. 

John is smiling, his eyes crinkled and bright, as if he can tell what Sherlock cannot say. "Or -- we could get married, you know. If you -- if what you need is something permanent. I'd marry you in a heartbeat, you have to know that."

_(???)_

"You don't have sex with men," Sherlock says, because it's the first thing he thinks of, and of course he'd have sex if John asked, but John's only ever been mildly interested

_(never let that interest grow, never fanned it into flame, never strayed over the lines)_

and he's seen the aftermath of marriages breaking down, ending in murder and sex was almost always tied, intimately, to those violent deaths, and -- 

John blinks at him, a puzzled wrinkle between his eyes. "And you don't have sex with anyone. I didn't say anything about sex, Sherlock." 

"I would. If you wanted. I'd let you." He's wrong-footed, somehow, off-balance.

_(John suggested getting married?)_

"Oh, very appealing, you'd let me -- I'm not -- I'm not going to -- you've been clear that you don't like that, Sherlock. I can get off with someone else, if I want." He looks down, smiles a crooked, lopsided smile. "As long as it doesn't bother you that I do."

_(does it bother him? No, aside from worry that John will leave)_

_(John said he wouldn't leave, years ago now._

_John said "I'm staying" and "as if there's any chance of me leaving you" and Sherlock thought -- he thought --)_

_(he tries to reorient his understanding of the past, of everything since John installed himself in Sherlock's bedroom and never left)_

Sherlock says nothing. John is still smiling, his body relaxed, eyebrows raised.

_(knees still spread, still leaning a little back in his seat, head still propped on his hand, as if he'd just asked if Sherlock wanted to watch television)_

Sherlock sets his tea down, closes his eyes, tries to think. John has been very clear. John said he wasn't leaving; he asked if Sherlock wanted to adopt Rosie; he said they could get married. Marriage usually

_(John said he wouldn't leave)_

involves sex; John likes sex.

_(John said he wouldn't leave)_

Honesty, then. "I'd -- I wouldn't mind. I don't think I'd mind. I might enjoy it. I think about that, sometimes." He watches John carefully; takes a deep breath.

_(John is too far away to track his breathing easily; his face hasn't changed)_

After a moment, John turns his head, sniffs, looks back. "You and Mary were right about me, all those years ago. About the kind of person I like." He shifts forward in his chair, to within touching range, reaches out. His hand is warm on Sherlock's knee. "You both knew before I did. And you were right. So. If you decide you want to give it a try -- sex I mean -- you let me know. But it's not -- that's not why I'm having this discussion. It's not important." 

"It's important to you," Sherlock says, because it is.

_(the longest John ever went without sex was after Mary died)_

_(John said he wouldn't leave)_

"I'm not going to give you up over sex." John firms his mouth, sets his hands on his knees. "Even if -- even if you don't want me to get off with anyone else. It's --" He frowns, stands, comes closer, raises his hand, strokes Sherlock's head; his fingers are firm and strong and warm on Sherlock's scalp. "I thought -- I thought you knew, I thought you'd figured it out years ago."

Sherlock shakes his head, not hard enough to dislodge John's hand.

_(he hadn't let himself, had always assumed John would leave, one day, that he was only here until he wasn't)_

John makes one of his marvelous, wry faces. "Well. I can't exactly order up another Mary, in any event. It's you, or no one, for me. Realistically."

_(there is always another woman, with John--)_

Sherlock clears his throat. "If you had an ordinary life," he says, "then the balance of probability -- yes. You'd be unlikely to meet anyone like Mary again, anyone who appeals to that part of you." John's hand is soft in his hair; John's hip close enough to rest his forehead against, if he lets himself fold forward. He remains upright. "However. You do not live an ordinary life. Mycroft could find you someone--."

"I don't trust Mycroft. I do trust you." Sherlock inhales, leans in, lets his head fall against John. John's fingers slide through his hair, John's hipbone

_(the stitching on his trousers, the ridge of his phone in his pocket)_

digs into his temple. "You're the detective," John says. "When you figure it out, let me know." He shifts; he is going to move away. Sherlock reaches up, tangles his fingers into John's shirt and waistband, holds on.

_(John's shoulders clutched in his hands; John throwing him to the ground; John laughing and stumbling as Sherlock teaches him to dance; John hugging him; John's hand pulling him to his feet; John shivering against him, their breaths puffing in the air)_

_(the memory of John's body is etched on his own)_

"I don't do romance," he says, his voice muffled against John's hip. "I don't do relationships, I don't have sex, John. And you do. You do all of those things, and I don't know -- I don't know how to do this."

John cradles his skull in one strong hand. "Sherlock."

_(tender, warm)_

He clears his throat. "I used to think, you know, that you not having sex, and you -- claiming to be a sociopath, and you saying you didn't care about anyone, were the same thing. That something had -- that you were -- I don't know."

_(fingers very gentle in Sherlock's hair)_

"Can I -- I've thought a lot about this, over the past few years. Can I tell you what I think?" Sherlock presses his face more firmly into John's hip, and nods. John's ribs shift as he breathes deeply. "I think you were protecting yourself. Caring about anyone -- loving anyone -- feeling at all -- you tried not to let yourself, because that's how you'd been hurt before. Eurus hurt you, so badly, and then Mycroft — and I have to remember he was a child, too, or I get very angry with him — he reinforced it, to protect you."

_(his fingers are still moving)_

"I've been raising my daughter with you for nine years. Do you think I could do that with someone incapable of love? Someone who doesn't do relationships?"

_(Sherlock cannot speak)_

_(cannot)_

He shakes his head. He is not sure what he is denying.

_(John's fingers slide through his hair)_

"I love you," John says, "like I've never loved anyone. Before you, I didn't have any idea that -- that people could feel this, and not somehow fall into bed."

_(John's hand has come to rest on the back of Sherlock's neck)_

"So let's consider, perhaps, that -- if I can love you this much and not want to take you to bed, then maybe -- just maybe -- the sex thing isn't because you're damaged. Maybe you just -- don't want that. Maybe there's no reason for it. Maybe it's just who you are." John clears his throat, again. "You are -- impossible, and amazing, and I can't imagine living without you, not ever again. And maybe that's not -- whatever. Traditional. But I have no intention of going anywhere."

Sherlock tightens his fingers, breathes into the damp fabric of John's trousers.

_(has he been weeping on John?)_

"Registry office," he says, finally. "And no friends. I don't want -- I don't want that. Then we'll sort Rosie's adoption." He tips his face up, looks up the line of John's body to his face. "And I -- touch me? Dance with me, sometimes?"

_(John says nothing, but he smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind Sherlock's ear)_

Sherlock closes his eyes for a long moment; opens them, and John is still there. "I do love you, John." 

John bends, kisses him softly.

_(dry, chaste, unmistakably affectionate: a promise)_

_(John said he wouldn't leave)_

Sherlock leans into it, and John laughs against his mouth, kisses him again, still dry but firm, and then rests his forehead against Sherlock's, breathes with him. "All right," he says, when he finally

_(too soon?)_

stops, and then he hauls Sherlock to his feet, draws him into an embrace, presses his face to the side of Sherlock's throat, murmurs, "I love you, you idiot," into his skin, turns him round gently in the figures of a waltz.

_(holds him, holds him, holds him)_


	10. What we have is not a destiny.

Later, Sherlock reaches out and tucks John against his side in their bed. The lamplight from his bedside table casts everything in gold. John laughs, a soft puff of breath against Sherlock's skin. "Should've figured you'd be a cuddler."

"Why?"

John shifts up onto his elbow and looks down at him. "You're always manhandling me," he answers, and Sherlock finds his mind looping back to their earlier conversation. Surely -- surely it is not out of bounds, now, to negotiate what he can, and cannot, do with John, or to him.

"You haven't -- you _don't_ have sex with men," he says. "But you also _haven't._ Not in the past, not ever."

_(Watching John looking up at James Sholto, Mary's voice in his ear: "Oh, Sherlock, neither of us were the first, you know")_

“No,” John says. 

Sherlock studies him: his eyes, his steady hands, the faint color high on his cheeks, the push of his tongue on his lower lip. "You've researched it."

A smile tugs at John's mouth. "Yes." 

"In case I wanted to." 

John looks down, shrugs with his free shoulder. "Best to be prepared," he says.

_(that mild heat he never let grow is evident, suddenly, in the lines of his body)_

Sherlock shifts closer, until their bodies touch. "What about -- is kissing a thing we do, now?"

"I kissed you already. Did you like it?"

Sherlock leans in and kisses him again, firmly, and then again, softly, and again, the barest brush against John's mouth.

_(John blinks at him, blushes; his mouth a little slack, a little slick)_

"Hm," Sherlock says. "Further experiments may be needed."

John wraps his arms around him, giggles into his chest, and says "Right, so you'll -- you'll let me know about the sex thing, I'm pretty sure that's not going to be a problem for me, apparently I'm attracted to _completely annoying arseholes._ " 

"Oh God," Sherlock says, "please don't leave me for Mycroft, I'll have a breakdown," and they're so busy laughing that it's a long time before they fall asleep. 

*

Sherlock picks Rosie up from Freya's.

_("You do it," John said, this morning, curled around Sherlock, his face between Sherlock's shoulderblades. "Caroline doesn't like me."_

_"Mm," Sherlock replied. "She's more than a little afraid of you."_

_"Afraid?" John tensed, then relaxed, as if something had slotted into place in his mind. "Well. She's not wrong."_

_Sherlock thought of long cold years without affection, of the spidering fault-lines Eurus left in his mind, of men's skin splitting under his fists and of watching men he'd killed falling to the ground._

_"You are exactly the correct quantity of dangerous," he said, pressing himself backwards, closer to John._

_John laughed, his breath warm through Sherlock's pyjama top, his arm snug around Sherlock's waist.)_

Caroline hands him a croissant as he enters the kitchen

_(Bill went out early to buy them fresh)_

and Rosie tumbles into his arms.

_(her embraces are nothing like John's, and everything like John's)_

He only just manages to keep croissant crumbs out of her hair; they land on her shoulder instead. He brushes them off as she mock-glares at him for the mess. They eat their food, knees knocking together under the table, and then gather her things. Rosie and Freya say their goodbyes, which as always involve eager promises and an inordinate number of kisses. "I'll see you soon," says Freya, and Rosie says, "Yes!" and then, finally, they are out the door.

Rosie slips her hand into his as they reach the sidewalk. "Can we play?" she asks.

"Of course," he answers, and she huffs out a breath, looks around, the picture of concentration. "It frosted overnight," she says. "The pavement looks dry but the air smells a little sharp, and some of the soil hasn't thawed yet." She frowns. "I can see the soil, but can't smell the thaw. I ought to be able to."

_(They've been working on natural and artificial odours common in the city, this past year. Her olfactory sensitivity is not as high as his, but she has an encyclopaedic capacity for detail)_

"Yes," says Sherlock. "It's the earth note under the sharpness. You'll learn." 

She nods and bites her lip. "That man's stepping out on his wife. He's taken his ring off and put it into his pocket, and then he's bought roses."

_(Pollen on the murder victim. Centrifuge this afternoon. Rosie can come along.)_

"And," he prompts, wondering if her eye has caught that the newsagent is fencing stolen phones, or that the tall woman with the dog is determined to break it off with her lover. 

"And you're happy today," she says. "Aren't you?"

Her hand is warm, and he looks down at her.

_(compact, intelligent, hand-eye coordination in the top 2% of the population, accomplished target shooter, fierce, brave, big-hearted, adores him in the uncomplicated, passionate way of children)_

_(his daughter)_

He can barely breathe through the fierce squeeze of joy in his chest. "I suppose I am," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for sex & relationship issues in this story:  
> Sherlock spends a lot of this story thinking about his relationships with his siblings, his emotions, and his relationship with John, in ways centered around Eurus killing Victor and trying to kill him. He struggles a great deal with what kind of a person he is as a result of that trauma, and that includes considering whether or not his asexuality has a traumatic origin. In this case, Sherlock comes to the conclusion that he can't know for certain, but that since it isn't something he finds distressing, it doesn't matter. His major concern is whether his asexuality precludes a satisfying relationship with John. He has never had a romantic relationship with anyone, and isn't certain if he can.
> 
> John identifies as heterosexual but is about as willing to have sex with Sherlock as Sherlock is to have sex with him, that is, they'd both be willing to do it for the sake of the other person but aren't really very interested on its own merits. John has sexual but not romantic relationships with other people in the story, and is uninterested in romantic relationships with anyone but Sherlock.
> 
> Spoilers for violence issues in this story:  
> John is in therapy during the story specifically because he wants to address his violent behavior (and some other issues). No major interpersonal/intimate partner violence occurs in the text of this story, but John's previous extreme violence comes up a few times.
> 
> Thank you to red_adam for [Brit-pick Hints for _Sherlock_ Authors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/259535), and to Ariana deVere for [_Sherlock_ episode transcripts](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/56441.html).


End file.
